


Sweet

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Comfortember 2020 [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Caring James Wilson (House M.D.), Comfortember 2020, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Gen, Greg House Loves James Wilson, Greg House Loves Lisa Cuddy, Greg House and James Wilson Being in Love, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: And that's where they're the same, because they both smell so sweet, because they comfort him, because he loves them, because they make him want to be good, because they remind him of everything he isn't and could never be and yet everything he knows he wants to be, because they're everything hewantsregardless.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson, Lisa Cuddy/Greg House
Series: Comfortember 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995943
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of comfortember, 'first day/night'

House wakes up to a warm embrace, an arm wound tightly around his torso holding him flush against something firm and hot. He feels a lot better than he did the day before, no headache or sore throat, and the only cloudiness he could feel hazing his mind is the effects of just waking up, and waking up, as it seems, with someone. It takes him a moment to remember exactly what's going on, not quite wanting to open his eyes to check just yet - mostly because he wants to be able to rely on his memory to tell him who he's in bed with at the moment. And it doesn't take long for the memories to flood in; though they're colored in the haze of a fever, he does remember Wilson sliding into bed with him. He remembers edging closer and closer to him. And now, of course, he realizes it makes sense. The smell of cinnamon could damn near kill him.

Of course, the smell is tinged with _Wilson;_ he doesn't know how to describe it, it's not just a cinnamon-y, rainy day smell. It's got something else just beneath the surface, a special kind of scent that only his best friend carries. He tries not to get too lost in it right away, remembering that it's not supposed to be like this; he's dreamed of waking up to Wilson before, he's even daydreamed about cuddling with him after a bad day, but he knows that's not his reality. He's not supposed to wake up to James Wilson - because James Wilson is too good to be in his bed every morning, and House just isn't good enough to wake up to the smell of cinnamon anyway.

Still, for a moment, he wants to lose himself in it. The embrace, the smell, the feeling of their bodies pressed and tangled together. He's on his right side - his leg is going to give him shit for that later - with his left leg splayed out a little further than usual, wrapped around Wilson's right one. The other man's arm is flung over him in what would have seemed like a careless embrace if it didn't fit right there above House's hip the way it does, centered perfectly as if it had been placed there cautiously in the middle of the night. When he finally dares to blink his eyes open, Wilson's face is closer than he expects it to be, half of his head resting on House's pillow. He looks content, a small smile gracing his lips as his body rises and falls while he breathes. He's shorter and smaller than House is, but right then he feels like the smaller one, the way Wilson's arm hangs over him. He feels his fingers curl against his spine as Wilson finally stirs.

A dry smile appears on his face, watching his best friend shift as he wakes up. He almost wants to pretend to be asleep so that Wilson would hold him for a little longer, but he dismisses the thought quickly. It's pathetic, really, pining like this. He knows better than to do that to himself, to indulge in fantasies that would never be anything more than that. He's sick and he's not thinking and that's the problem. He'd regret it if he let himself do anything stupid in this state.

"Morning," he greets as Wilson blinks his eyes open, squinting against the light streaming in through the window. It takes a few seconds, he sees, for him to register the situation; he can practically see the gears in Wilson's head turning as he widens his eyes further to look at him. His arm shifts, and House misses the warmth before Wilson even pulls it away, slow enough to maybe be mistaken for reluctance if it weren't for the fact that he's still half asleep and sluggish. House decides to give him a pass for that one. He was the one who had initiated it anyway - really, what had he expected to happen, snuggling up to Wilson like he had?

"Morning…" Wilson mumbles, drowsily, and rolls away from him. "I… ah… sorry."

"I seem to recall pretty much forcing you to cuddle with me last night," House retorts, even though seeing Wilson so embarrassed is actually a little endearing. He shifts a little to roll away from him after a few seconds, though, and the space between them feels oddly cold. He doesn't like that feeling, doesn't like being _far_ from him, but he shakes it off in favor of focusing on sitting up instead, pushing himself up with a wince as his leg makes itself known again, and once again decides to show him who the boss is. He almost winces as the thought of Wilson seeing him like this first thing in the morning crosses his mind, but he's quick to stifle that as well.

"How are you feeling?" Wilson murmurs instead of responding to House's comment, and the diagnostician doesn't reply for a few seconds as he struggles to get his thoughts in order again. He scans his nightstand quickly in search of Vicodin, and reaches out at once the moment his gaze rests on the amber bottle sitting there, scooping it into his hand and thumbing the cap off.

"I'm feeling like my fever just broke and I slept on my leg all night. But I also woke up with a cute boy in my bed, so that kind of makes up for it." He can't help but smirk a little as he speaks. Wilson, to his credit, doesn't even seem to get too flustered; his cheeks are red, but that could very well be because he's hot, because they did practically use each other as heaters all night long, and House had practically been emanating heat the entire time regardless. The joke eases the tension a little anyway, the embarrassed air between them thinning out just a bit as they settle back into their usual rhythm. House doesn't intend to give Wilson too much crap for this; that would require acknowledging it, which he's finding hard to do in the long run as it is. A few jokes are in order, however, because he knows if he doesn't joke about it, _then_ it's suspicious.

Wilson clears his throat after a moment, while House pops two Vicodin and settles his hand over his thigh, curling his fingers against the scar. "Well, if your fever broke, that's a good sign." His best friend paused, and House looked over in time to see him running his fingers through his hair to smooth it back, shuffling a little to peel the blanket off of him and get up. He remembers when Wilson had moved in with him, getting used to the man's morning routines, but he hadn't seen him when he first woke up - at least, not quite like this. Not waking up in the same bed, not adjusting to the morning beside one another, at the same time. It's… weird. "But we should probably double-check just in case. And you should probably stay home today too-"

"Nope," House interrupts, punctuating his sentence with the _click_ of the cap being snapped back onto his Vicodin bottle. "Yesterday was a fluke. Today I'm bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to endlessly mock my team, harass Cuddy, and commit medical crimes." Wilson rolls his eyes at him at this, but he can't hide the worry in his eyes. House promptly resolves to ignore it. "Besides, you have cancer kids to tend to. Who else is going to look at them with that doe-eyed puppy dog look and make them forget that they're dying for a day? Only you can pull that off."

Wilson makes a face in response, a slight twist of his mouth expressing a clear mixture of disapproval and frustration, though his eyes sing a different song. His gaze roams House's face for a moment, before his chin lifts, and then settles again in what House assumes to be a nod.

House smirks, victorious. "Great. I'm gonna take a bath." He pauses to heave himself upright, grappling blindly with the nightstand to tug himself onto his feet. Wilson seems to tense as he watches, a strained expression crossing his face as he seemingly fights every urge to jump up and help him - as if House hasn't gone through this routine before, as if he doesn't know what he's doing, as if he needs the assistance. And it's sweet, it is, but he finally feels a brief spark of irritation. Not quite directed at Wilson, but himself, for being so… pathetic. But he swallows the bitter taste in his mouth away, and he stifles the bitterness as he so often does, as he plucks the throat-numbing sucker Wilson had left for him the night before off of the bedside table, unwrapping it in one swift motion and popping it in his mouth before reaching to grab his cane.

"I'm gonna need a ride to work," he adds on his way to the doorway, stopping to crane his neck to the side so he can glance back at Wilson out of the corner of his eye. He pauses upon seeing his best friend has risen to his feet and is now busying himself with making the bed, straightening wrinkles out of the blanket and fixing the pillows to his liking. He wants to tease him for it, but he can't help himself; he just stares, and wonders what it would be like to see this every morning. It's oddly… domestic, the picture they make right now. The picture they made last night. House will never admit it, not to anybody, but he craves that. He hates himself for it, and in a way he almost hates Wilson for it, because he's the only one that _makes_ him crave it.

Wilson glances up at him and smiles as he finishes up, looking down briefly to straighten one last wrinkle and tug the blanket taut at one of the corners. "Fine. But I'm taking a shower first."

House doesn't have anything more to say, so he merely nods and continues on his way.

The ache in his chest is more prominent than usual for the rest of the day. He finds himself fighting a smirk when he comes into work, when Cameron practically knocks Chase and Foreman down in order to greet him first the second he steps through the door, when she and the 'wombat' bombard him with questions, ask him if he's okay, when even Foreman checks him over (with a frown and a furrow of his brow that indicates worry, but House won't call him on it), when he catches Wilson's knowing glance through the window on the way to his office.

Even when Cuddy catches him on his way to lunch, falling into step with him as he limps down the hallway. He slows slightly despite himself, and she slows to keep pace with him. "Glad you're feeling good enough to come in today, House. When I heard you were sick, I was…"

"Shocked?" House offers, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"Pretty much," Cuddy admits. He can't help but pause when her eyes flick in his direction, and his pace slows a little more on instinct. Cuddy can't be more different from Wilson; her eyes are a bright, deep blue as opposed to Wilson's warm, gentle brown; she doesn't smell like cinnamon and rain; she's not as soft and worried and she doesn't make him feel as painfully _raw_ as Wilson does. When Wilson looks at him, he feels like he's been sliced open, on display for only his best friend to see. But when Cuddy looks at him, like that, he feels like he's being cracked and peeled apart piece by piece like the shell of a boiled egg. Like he _could_ be open, on display.

Cuddy's not like Wilson. She smells like the ocean, like the beach, like coconuts. When he's close enough sometimes he finds himself wanting to run his fingers through her hair and kiss her, and sample the flavor of the lipstick she's wearing. She's not like Wilson, but he loves her. And they're both too good for him. Too good, he decides, _so_ good, and he doesn't understand what he did to be able to have them both in his life, he doesn't understand because he knows he's not a good guy, a good friend, a good person, but sometimes when he's around both of them, or either of them, he feels like maybe he could be - and that's where they're the same, because they both smell so sweet, because they comfort him, because he loves them, because they make him want to be good, because they remind him of everything he isn't and could never be and yet everything he knows he wants to be, because they're everything he _wants_ regardless. Maybe that's why their presence is so intoxicating. Because it _hurts._

"I'm glad you're okay," Cuddy continues, brushing her hair back and tucking it behind her ear as she walks. She throws him a smirk as she goes on, "but you're still doing clinic duty today." She quickens her pace then, and he pauses as he watches her leave, heading down the hallway.

"Hope I don't sneeze on a patient," House calls after her.

She glances back at him before she turns a corner, that smirk still playing on her lips. "We have tissues." And then she's gone, turning the corner before he can reply, disappearing from sight.

After a moment, he tugs his lips into a grin, ducks his head, shakes it a few times, and goes on.


End file.
